


The Vast Profundity Obscure

by mistyzeo



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Background Slash, Case Fic, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence, dust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More than a year after Sherlock Holmes's return from the dead, his cohabitation with the good Doctor has more or less returned to normal. With their daemons at their sides, Holmes and Watson are as keen a pair of crime solvers as they ever were. Deep in the winter of 1895, their limits as a team are tested when a young woman's daemon is stolen from her side and destroyed. It is not the first of such attacks, Watson learns, and he and Holmes immediately set out to find the culprit of the horrifying deed. They are led into a web of back alleys and gambling debt that leads ultimately to the heart of the government, all in the pursuit of the elusive element of Dust. But their investigation is not a secret one, and the duo's fame in the city of London brings them more trouble than expected and forces them to take some measures to protect one another that violate many a social taboo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Holmes Big Bang](http://holmes-big-bang.livejournal.com/) challenge on LJ. Many thanks to [devyn_rose](http://devyn_rose.livejournal.com/) for artwork and to [falling_voices](http://falling-voices.livejournal.com/) for help with story building and polishing! Art by [numberthescars](http://numberthescars.livejournal.com/) is also in the works, stay tuned.
> 
> [Find Devyn's art here!](http://devyn-rose.livejournal.com/20218.html)

It began, as many of our adventures do, in the sitting room at Baker Street. Holmes was curled up in his chair with his knees to his chin, smoking his black clay pipe, and I was seated at my desk by the window, ostensibly working on the narrative of a case we had worked on in August, but primarily staring out the window at the snow that was beginning to fall. The year was 1895: only some eighteen months had passed since Holmes's miraculous return from the dead, and our domestic routine had almost achieved normalcy. There were still some nights that I awoke from nightmares of that waterfall in Switzerland, but they had decreased in frequency until it was only once a month or so that I had such dreams. Holmes was back, and we were both determined to let that be the end of it.

The snow had been threatening all day, the skies grown heavy and somber, and the cold in the air deepening until I felt it in my old wound and Razia wouldn't move more than a few feet from the fire, which meant I was confined to the house as well. She had finally settled down inside the feline comma of Hengest's body, her head under her wing, and I had been gazing out the window ever since. A hush had settled over the city, every sound muffled by the new snow.

Our quiet peace was interrupted by the sound of a carriage in the street, which stopped its rattling directly in front of our door. Holmes lifted his chin from his chest, head cocked in anticipation, and he unfolded himself gracefully when the ring sounded upon our bell.

"We have a visitor, friend Watson," he said.

"So we do," I agreed, peering out the window in an attempt to get a better look at the carriage itself. Being Holmes's companion for so many years had not left me entirely unaffected, and I observed that our visitor was wealthy, traveling alone, and had come in a hurry on a cold night.

There was a rap upon our sitting room door a minute or so later, and Holmes called, "Enter!"

Mrs Hudson led our guest into the room, handed Holmes a card as he rose, and said, "Mr William Ainsley, gentlemen."

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," Mr Ainsley said, reaching for Holmes's outstretched hand. "I hope I'm not intruding, I know it's late."

"Not at all, Mr Ainsley," Holmes said, offering the young man a seat on the settee. "This is my friend and associate, Doctor Watson."

"Doctor, a pleasure," Ainsley said, giving a weak smile in my direction. I didn't take it personally; I could tell he was under a great deal of stress, and was trying to remain calm. He took off his hat and sank down on the front edge of the settee, holding the hat under his arm. His knee began immediately to jiggle up and down in nervous anticipation. He was well-dressed, as I had expected, but he was also younger than I had anticipated. He might have been twenty-four or twenty-five, with bright green eyes and lush coppery hair that almost reached his collar. His _daemon_ , which I did not see at first, was an ermine, curled around his slender neck, apparently asleep. His face was finely boned, his features delicate, and he wore a thin gold wedding band on his hand.

"Now, Mr Ainsley, do tell us what's brought you here on a night like this. Your wife?"

Mr Ainsley jumped as if he'd been struck and stared at Holmes, his eyes wide. "How could you know, Mr Holmes?"

"It is my business, of course." Holmes leaned back contentedly in his chair, crossing his legs and steepling his fingers. At the fireplace, Hengest rose, arched his back in a luxurious stretch, and wandered across the carpet to curl around Holmes's feet. Without taking his eyes off our client, Holmes lifted his toe for Hengest to rub his cheek against.

"Yes," Ainsley said, "well, Mr Holmes, my wife is very ill. I have been away on business, you see, in Liverpool."

"For how long?"

"Only two days, since Friday. I came back this evening, Mr Holmes, and found Melissa on the floor of the sitting room."

Holmes tilted his head. "There is more to this than an illness, I presume; else you would have come to consult the good Doctor, and not me. Please get to the point."

"Her _daemon_ is nowhere to be found, Mr Holmes." Ainsley's brow creased with the effort of maintaining his demeanour. "I didn't think anything of it, at first; Hector is a mouse, you see, and often hard to see. I was able to move Melissa to the couch and I called the doctor, and it wasn't until he arrived that I noticed Hector was missing."

Holmes had sat up very straight in his seat. "Mr Ainsley," he said, "it is very important that you describe to me exactly, _exactly_ what happened when you arrived home. What time was it? Was the door open?"

"It was a little after six," Ainsley said. His ermine had opened its eyes, and was staring at Holmes with rapt attention. "I got into Paddington station at a quarter till, and it usually takes me twenty minutes to walk. I walked a bit faster, today, since it was so cold."

"And the door?"

Ainsley frowned briefly.

"Was it forced?" Holmes prompted. "Unlocked?"

"Unlocked," Ainsley said, nodding. "Not forced, certainly; I would have noticed that."

"How many people knew you were away from home?"

"My employers, Messrs Cartwright and Stern," Ainsley said, pursing his lips in thought. "The house staff, of course. A few of my colleagues: Simmons, MacGregor, and Turner for certain."

"Anyone else?"

Ainsley began to wring his hands. "Well, I go out of town somewhat regularly; not always at the same time or for the same number of days, but our neighbours are used to my absence. Melissa's good friend, Jane, often makes sure to stop in if Melissa is alone for more than a day or two, just to keep her company." He smiled, almost sadly. "I do believe they play whist and gossip until the sun comes up."

"Just so." Holmes sat back slowly, staring past Ainsley. "Describe to me how you found your wife."

"On the floor, Mr Holmes."

Holmes narrowed his eyes in irritation, and I saw Hengest's ears go back. "Yes, you said that," he said, "but how? On her face? On her back? As if she had been reaching for a chair? How!"

Ainsley winced at Holmes's near-shout, and stammered, "Her front, she was on her front. She had fallen where she stood. She was unconscious when I moved her to the sofa, but she roused enough for the doctor to examine her. I believe she struck her head when she fell, and she was incoherent, crying out for help. Oh, Mr Holmes, please, you must do something!"

Holmes nodded once. "I will. You suspect, of course, that she has been forcibly Separated."

The colour drained from Ainsley's face, but he nodded. "I do."

"Why did you not go to the police?"

"Melissa is a follower of yours," Ainsley said, and included me in the indication. "She says you are a very clever man, and a very kind man, and you can do things the police cannot."

Holmes scoffed. "I am not a wizard, if that's what she believes," he said, "but you did the right thing in coming to me. Watson, get your coat. Mr Ainsley, we will meet you downstairs in a moment."

Ainsley nodded again and stood on shaky legs. He squared his shoulders in the manner I had seen of many a soldier, and left the sitting room, leaving the door open behind him. I turned to Holmes.

"We're going now?" I asked, lowering my voice. "It's nearly nine o'clock, and snowing."

Holmes was already halfway into his long woollen overcoat, and Hengest was twining around his ankles, anxious to be off. Razia was glaring at me from her new post on the back of the settee, obviously displeased. She didn't want to be out in the snow any more than I did. She had settled into her falcon shape when I was a young man in Australia before the war, and she, like I, preferred the summer to the New Year.

"Watson," Holmes said, settling his hat onto his head with an air of finality, "this is not the first suspected Separation that has occurred this month. It is the tenth."

"The tenth?" I exclaimed. "Good God, why haven't we heard anything about it?"

"Because before this moment, the unfortunate souls to be discovered much in the same position as Mrs Ainsley have not been of the notable class. They have been two ladies' maids, one prostitute, two carpenters, one blacksmith, one brakeman, and two street urchins. You ask why we haven't heard anything about it, and I will tell you. The darker corners of London are all abuzz with the stories and the rumours, but this end of town hasn't been touched. It's not as though the paper reports every rape and theft and bar fight, Watson; why would they report every Separation of every poor bastard in Whitechapel? Until now, when someone who cares has enough power and money to make their way to the sitting room of another fellow who cares. Two, I hope."

I nodded, and reached for my coat. "One of the urchins was yours, I presume?"

Holmes started. He hadn't expected me to notice that detail.

"Yes," he said. "I'm not a family man, Watson, but I get by. I don't take kindly to those who tamper with my Irregulars."

Razia lifted herself from the settee and flapped across the room to us, settling on my shoulder. Her powerful talons gripped my overcoat, putting pressure on my other souvenir of Afghanistan. We both winced; it hurt more in the cold than it usually did. I followed Holmes and Hengest down the stairs to join Mr Ainsley and his ermine at the door, and the six of us emerged from 221 into a slow haze of snow. The driver was in his seat atop the carriage, though I knew Mrs Hudson had fed him a cup of tea and at least two biscuits in the time Ainsley had been upstairs, and the horse was snorting impatiently. We alighted, settled ourselves in the dark, warm carriage, and were off, bumping down Baker Street in eerie silence. Hengest insinuated himself into Holmes's lap and under Holmes's hand, and I saw Holmes begin to stroke him from nape to tail as we rattled along.

—

Ainsley and his wife lived in on Chepstow Road, near St Stephen's. Their home was a narrow townhouse, aspiring to greatness in its tall windows and iron railings. We were driven around back, to the carriage house, and Ainsley led us through the yard and into a rear hall. The house was brightly lit inside, and we passed dining room and study before being shown to the sitting room.

"Melissa was here," Ainsley said, indicating a bloodstained patch of carpet. "Her head, as I said."

"Yes," Holmes agreed, stooping to look more closely. Hengest sniffed at the bloodstain, and then at the place where Melissa had lain. "The staff," Holmes said, "were they not here? Why was it you who found her, if, as you said, you have staff."

Ainsley looked uncomfortable. "We only have three," he said. "Beth, the cook, Gladys, Melissa's maid, and Douglas, my valet, who is also our driver."

"And where were they?"

"They were out of the house. Beth said she got to talking at the market and came home later than usual, and Douglas was in the carriage house."

"And Gladys?"

"Nowhere to be found," Ainsley said.

"Was she meant to be here?" Holmes pressed. "Don't make this difficult, Mr Ainsley. Tell me where she was, and where she is now."

"She's gone," Ainsley said, his face crumpling in misery. "She was gone when I came home, and I don't know where she is now."

"I presume it isn't her day off. No, well. We shall have to take that into consideration, of course. Mr Ainsley, do not look so despondent. A missing maid is a very good place to start on an investigation such as this."

Ainsley nodded. His ermine had curled even more tightly around his neck, tucking its face into its tail. He took a deep breath, composing himself, and said, "Will you follow me upstairs, gentlemen?"

Mrs Ainsley lay in her bed, pale and fragile-looking against the blankets that were piled around her. She opened heavy eyes when we entered, and a look of recognition crossed her face. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. 

"Darling," Ainsley said, crossing to her and taking her hand in his. "I've brought Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson."

She gazed at him blankly. Her hand was trembling. "Will, it hurts," she whispered.

"Watson," Holmes said softly, "do me a favour and examine the lady. I must know if she is suffering from true Separation, or simply the symptoms of an exaggerated Pull. I need to know if I still have time."

Razia preceded me across the room, and landed nimbly on the headboard above the woman's head. She peered down at her, turning her head first one way and then the other to see her with both bright gold eyes. Razia looked back up at me as I approached, and I perceived a minute shake of her head. Still, I was resolved to proceed with my own examination.

It is a strange and horrible thing to see an individual without their _daemon_ present. It was like looking at a woman without a face: half her identity was gone. The _daemon_ is a manifestation of the soul, and it is exceedingly unusual to be without one. There are legends of people who can separate themselves from their _daemon_ willingly, though the process is said to involve a great deal of emotional and physical discomfort. The Witches of the North were a strange and magnificent people, but never in my travels have I encountered one. Most people cannot be more than a few yards from their _daemon_ at any time, and why would they? The dividing of a whole like that is unnatural. To force the separation on another individual is the very height of cruelty, beyond murder in its impact. The death is not done cleanly, and the victim can suffer for months before finally succumbing to the inevitable. Their last days are spent not as a human being but as a shell, drying unto brittleness and dissolving in the wind.

Mrs Ainsley's pulse was faint and rapid, and her skin was hot under my fingers. When I touched her she groaned but made no move to pull away from me. Her eyelids fluttered, and behind them I could see her eyes moving back and forth, seeing something that wasn't there. The place on her forehead that she had struck as she fell was swollen and bruised but no longer bleeding. When I palpated the edges of the bruising, it elicited no response from the patient. With Ainsley's permission, I turned down the bedclothes and made a thorough examination of Mrs Ainsley's limbs and torso, flexing her joints and palpating her abdomen. There was nothing wrong with her, physically. For a young bride, she was in the bloom of health. It was her mind, her very soul, that suffered.

"She won't last," Razia told me. "I can smell the _daemon_ on her, but he's very weak. They both are."

"The Pull is a very great distance," I said. "Do you think she'd be able to locate him?"

"Not in this state," Razia said. "Not anymore."

Mrs Ainsley gave a cry suddenly, arching her back so hard she fairly lifted off the bed. I stepped back in surprise, and Mr Ainsley fell down beside her, taking her in his arms. The ermine that had been around his neck uncoiled and scampered up the woman's breast, tucking itself under her chin now. I almost looked away: it was so intense a show of devotion it made me blush. Holmes did not flinch, however, and watched them intently. Hengest jumped up onto the foot of the bed, so close to the poor woman that he was almost touching her. I opened my mouth to protest and Holmes shot me a look that made the words die on my tongue. Razia leapt from the bed to my shoulder in one strong wingbeat and tucked herself as tightly as she could into my neck.

"Melissa," Ainsley was saying, whispering in her ear and then crying it, trying to call to her. "Melissa!"

Mrs Ainsley shrieked, writhing and striking at the air. Her eyes were wide open now, full of terror and tears. Ainsley struggled to restrain her, pressing his forehead to her pale shoulder, but all at once she went limp and silent, and it was over.

Ainsley began to weep, repeating, "No, no," over and over, until Holmes took him by the shoulder and drew him away. I closed Mrs Ainsley's eyes with gentle fingers and pulled the sheet over her once more.

"She is lucky," Holmes said to Ainsley. It was more comfort than I had seen him offer any other client of ours. He beckoned to me and I walked slowly around the bed again, my heart heavy in my chest. "Call a constable," Holmes said, "and see that Mr Ainsley is removed to his bedroom and that the valet is alerted. I will speak to the constable when he arrives, and then we will be on our way. There's nothing can be done for Mrs Ainsley now, but we will certainly see this to its conclusion."

The constable came after a considerable delay and blamed the snow when he arrived. It was still falling thickly, blanketing the streets. The constable talked with Holmes for a few minutes while the valet and I administered a large dose of brandy to Ainsley, and eventually thanked him for his presence.

"I know it's late, gentlemen," he said, as Holmes and I saw ourselves out the front door, "but I will make sure we keep you informed. Mr Holmes, look for a telegram in the morning."

—

We returned to Baker Street by way of the Underground, given that the snow and the late hour would have made it nearly impossible to get a cab. It was not our usual method of transport, but Holmes took one look at me and my walking stick and declared we would risk it. Paddington Station was warm enough, if not particularly clean or pleasant smelling, but I was grateful for the respite from the snow. We spent the ride to Baker Street Station in silence, both of us lost in thought. Holmes had his cheek resting against Hengest's narrow head, and Hengest's tail twitched from time to time. Razia spread her wings wide to dry them. 

We were not the only passengers on the train. Two young men got on at Edgeware Road and we all pretended not to see one another. As we departed at Baker Street, an older man and his wife replaced us. It was good to see the Metropolitan Line getting some use. The Underground had been under construction for several years, its stations gradually increasing in number, but it had only been recently that the newer, more powerful steam trains had become truly useful. Still, we did not make a habit of it.

Holmes was unwrapping his scarf from around his neck as I closed the sitting room door behind us. He moved slowly, obviously still thinking. Hengest had slipped from his arms the moment we entered the house, and was licking himself thoroughly by the banked fireplace. Razia flew to join him, and Holmes turned to me.

"It is appropriate that we took the Underground tonight, Watson," he said.

"Is it?" I shrugged out of my coat and hung it up alongside his. The combination of the winter's chill and the terrible sight we had just seen made me long for my pipe and my bed, as if sleep could make me forget it for a while. But Holmes was full of nervous energy and I knew he, at least, would not be turning in for quite some time.

He hesitated a moment, regarding me carefully, and then went to the mantle. He offered me a cigarette from the case, which would substitute passably well for a pipe, and we lit them together. I sat down in my armchair and waited.

"Are you familiar with the concept of Dust, Watson?"

I shrugged, dragging on my cigarette. "It is postulated on and hypothesized about unto the point of myth," I said. "I've read quite a bit about it. There are some medicos who wish very much that it were a tangible element, so that it might be applied to the physical sciences."

"Well, they may soon get their wish, then," Holmes said. "It has become an area of study of mine, recently, and I am of the newly formed opinion that it does, in fact, exist."

I knew better than to look surprised. I had seen some pamphlets and papers about it lying about in the past few weeks, and one doesn't need to be a consulting detective to read into that. I said, "It's real, then?"

"I think so." Holmes sat down, finally. On the rug in front of us, the two _daemon_ s settled into their familiar intertwined position, warming themselves by each other. Sometimes the closeness of the two of them made me wonder, but it also made me glad. They expressed a level of affection I knew Holmes and I might never reach, and through them we both could feel a subtle sort of contact. I felt Hengest's warmth against Razia's feathered body, and I knew Holmes experienced something similar. For a moment he smiled at me, perhaps reading my thoughts upon my face, but his expression turned serious again quickly.

"Explain," I said. "Let us presume that it does exist, as you say. I only mean, you need not use the hypothetical; I am prepared to believe anything you say."

"A dangerous preparation," Holmes said, but he nodded, drew on his cigarette once more, and began. "Dust, the scholars believe, is the essence of the soul. It is what makes the physical manifestation of the _daemon_ possible. Without Dust, they would not exist. No, Watson, I do not mean that we would all go about as half-formed beings, incapable of thought and insensate to the world; instead, our souls would live inside our bodies. We wouldn't need such companions, for we would be... well, singular. Each of us."

I frowned. It sounded dreadful. Though I knew a _daemon_ was a natural being, it felt as though Razia and I had seen things that other people had not, and had bonded in ways others couldn't comprehend. She had been with me through every stage of my life, and she knew me more deeply than I perhaps knew myself. But, of course, she was part of myself, and therefore privy to my subconscious in some ways that I did not entirely understand or care to question. The logic was circular, however, and I understood what Holmes was trying to say. "Go on."

"Some people speculate that Dust is a form of energy, like electricity, or heat, that is continually conducted between a person and their _daemon_. That is how a connection is formed and fortified, and why breaking the bond can be so harmful to both parties."

I pictured Mrs Ainsley, twisted in agony as she was Separated from half her soul. I nodded.

Holmes's cigarette hung neglected from his fingers, the paper burning away and leaving a column of ash. He was staring into the fire, unseeing. "Steam," he said, "is king these days. Soon we will have pneumatic carriages and indoor lighting powered by coal. But it's expensive, Watson, and it cannot be sustained."

"You think Dust is the replacement," I said.

He shrugged and remembered his cigarette. "I think there are people who believe it is."

"How would anyone harness it, though?" I asked. "If it only exists between— oh, how very stupid of me."

"Quite," Holmes said, and ignored my scowl of indignation. "The only way to capture it, some might say, would be to capture the essence of it."

Both Hengest and Razia were watching us intently, their matching golden eyes unblinking.

"The _daemon_ ," I said.

"The _daemon_."

"You think that's what's happening here? A woman is Separated deliberately, in an attempt to bottle the power of her soul?"

"Yes, but why her?" Holmes flicked his neglected cigarette into the grate and pressed his fingertips to his mouth. "Watson, I worry that this is only the beginning. The incidents that have not been reported, the ones that I have been investigating without much success these past few weeks, suggest to me a testing phase. Now we have entered the implementation phase, which means that the citizens of London, and perhaps the world, are in grave danger."

He was not one for conspiracy theory, and I was shocked. "We have to do something," I said.

Holmes glared at me indulgently. "Yes," he said, "I plan to involve us deeply in this affair. It will almost certainly be exceedingly dangerous."

"Well," I said, "that's why I'm here."

"Ah, and I thought it was for these splendid rooms we share." He stood up. "We have not heard the last of the poor Ainsleys, I'm afraid. Sleep well, my dear boy, for tomorrow we embark on a strange journey."

It was theatrics, it had to be, but it sent a chill down my spine. "Good night," I said weakly as Hengest rose from the fire and followed him into his bedroom. Razia flapped from the rug and perched on the arm of my chair, and I stroked the top of her head with one finger.

"Are you prepared to defend yourself?" I asked.

"Please, John," she said. "We have a distinct taste for danger, I'm afraid, and wouldn't have it any other way."

"I know." I pondered the service revolver locked in my desk. Razia nipped my finger, just firmly enough to pinch and make me start. "What was that for?"

"Doubting me," she said. "Doubting yourself. I am your voice of reason, John. Let's go to bed."


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes greeted me the moment I entered the sitting room. "Good morning," he said, "we have some news from the constabulary regarding the late Mrs Ainsley."

"Splendid," I said, sitting down to breakfast. "Do tell."

"Well." He sat down across from me, brandishing a telegram. "Her death has been ruled a homicide, thank goodness, so we can get down to business immediately. Gregson has written to notify us of an ongoing investigation, and says that we may use their resources howsoever we choose." He sneered. "Not that I need their resources, particularly, but it will be nice to not be hassled by our friends in blue every time we round the corner."

Razia accepted a few bites of toast from my fingers. _Daemon_ s do not need to eat, strictly speaking, but they seem to enjoy it all the same. 

"Excellent," I said. "Where do we begin?"

"With the maid, Gladys." Holmes put the telegram down and accepted a cup of tea that I poured for him. "I abhor a coincidence, Watson. She has something to do with the death of her mistress, that much is certain. I am also certain that she was hired not long ago, and from an Agency in Paddington. She is a local girl, and I imagine she has gotten herself into rather darker dealings than she knows what to do with."

"How on earth—" I began, and Holmes smiled.

"A pamphlet," he said, producing it from the inner pocket of his dressing gown, "that I spotted in the rear hallway as we entered the house. It was out of place, and so I took it."

I shook my head in disbelief, but gestured with my fork for him to go on.

"Once we find her, if we find her, perhaps we will be able to locate her associates. Are you quite finished, Watson? I've been waiting for hours."

"That," I said, "is not my fault. Dawn has not stopped you before in coming into my room with your demands." Nevertheless, I put down fork and knife and wiped my mouth. "But yes, I am quite finished."

The snow had stopped falling during the night, leaving a blanket a few inches thick on the pavement. The streets were again busy with the morning traffic, and the snow had melted and slushed away along the cobblestones. Along Baker Street, residents were sweeping their swathes of pavement clear, and we stepped around more than a few shivering offspring earning their supper. We caught a cab at the corner and rode to Paddington, whereupon we found our way to Mrs Lewiston's Domestic Agency. 

Mrs Lewiston's parlour was full of young women with their hats and handbags, waiting to be called into the office to be interviewed and judged fit to employ. We were seen straight in upon Holmes's introduction, and Mrs Lewiston shooed a girl out as we entered.

Mrs Lewiston was a plump, matronly woman of fifty or so, with a hint of grey in her thick, black hair and wire spectacles perched on her nose. Her _daemon_ , a fat pug, was sleeping next to the stove that warmed the room. Mrs Lewiston ruled from behind a desk with an enormous ledger open in front of her, and she motioned for us to sit.

"Mr Holmes," she said. "Your reputation precedes you, I am afraid, and I know this is not a social visit."

"I'm afraid not," he said. "We need to know about one of your girls."

"I'm sure you do, sir. Which one?"

"Her name is Gladys," Holmes said. "She was employed very recently, within the last few months, to Mr and Mrs Ainsley of Chepstow Road."

Mrs Lewiston frowned to herself and began to page through her ledger. "Mr Holmes," she said, "I have a hundred girls come through here every week; the call for domestic maids is not what it usually is right now, and it may be difficult to find one name in a sea— ah. Here she is. Gladys Miller. Nineteen years old, brown hair, brown eyes, experience as a housemaid and lady's maid, employed by Mr Ainsley on the third of last month. I have her paperwork here in the files, if you would like to see it."

"Please," Holmes said. He twiddled his thumbs while she rose from her seat and began to open the cabinets behind her. Hengest approached the pug _daemon_ on the floor slowly, almost warily, but backed off and returned to Holmes's side before Mrs Lewiston turned around again.

"Here it is," she said. "Miss Miller has a rather uninteresting record. She has only come back to me a few times since she started working, and usually stays with her employer for the better part of a year. Some of my best matches stay for life, of course, but with the young ones I cannot always expect them to be ready to settle down in one household indefinitely." Mrs Lewiston set the file in Holmes's hands. "You may keep it," she said. "As long as you need it. I expect to have it back, however, if Miss Miller will be returning."

"Much obliged," said Holmes, standing up. "I will return these if it is appropriate."

Mrs Lewiston gave us a small, sad smile. "I don't like to see my girls in trouble, Mr Holmes. But we cannot steer them all unto the path of righteousness."

"We cannot," Holmes agreed. "Good day to you."

—

Out on the street, Holmes opened the file and glanced over the first page. "Her last known address is in Bankside," he said, running his finger down the page. "Not too far to come for employment. Though much too far to travel every day on her weekly pay."

"She must have lived with the Ainsleys," I said. "They certainly have the room for her."

"My thoughts exactly." Holmes closed the file with a snap and tucked it under his arm. "Well," he said, "I hope your pocketbook is full, my boy, because we have a ways to go."

—

The cabbie was reluctant to take us across the river on principle, but Holmes insinuated that I was a generous tipper and we set off at a brisk pace. Holmes gazed out the window, deep in thought. I wanted to broach the subject again of his research into Dust, but something stayed my tongue. I couldn't stop thinking of Mrs Ainsley's suffering, and knowing that there had been others made me nauseous. That Holmes had known about it and not said anything... I wasn't sure how to see that. Perhaps he had been investigating it as an extension of his hobby of experimenting with dangerous chemicals. Perhaps he'd meant to bring it up, as soon as it became relevant. Perhaps Mr Ainsley had forced his hand.

"Watson," he said abruptly, turning to me. Hengest's ears were perked up, and he uncoiled himself from Holmes's lap to cross the space between us and settle down beside Razia, where she stood with wings folded upon the seat. I wondered, not for the first time, whether Holmes could read my mind. "You have the most serious look upon your face, my friend," he said, rather than telling me what it meant.

"It's a very serious business," I said. I reached over to Razia and stroked her gently upon the head, feeling a little frisson of warmth from the caress. I couldn't have said which of the four of us it came from. "I don't know what you expect we will find when we reach Miss Miller's abode."

"I don't know what I expect either," Holmes admitted. "I don't suppose she will be at home, but I will speak to anyone who will speak to me."

"And what if no one will?"

Holmes shrugged. "I will cross that bridge, et cetera."

I smiled. "Very well," I said. "But now we are crossing this one."

Rolling his eyes in disapproval, Holmes did deign to look out at the Thames as we passed over it, and my heart began to pound in anticipation. This was part of being on the case that I loved: the lead-up, approaching a suspect, lying in wait, igniting a catalyst that would set the solution in motion.

The driver turned us out in a neighbourhood of Bankside that I was not familiar with, but which Holmes seemed to know as well as all the rest in London. We turned down one street and then another, and finally found ourselves in little more than an alleyway, knocking at a door that had been painted blue once, but which was now faded to grey.

A young, petite woman answered the door, green eyes narrowed with suspicion. Her _daemon_ , a river otter, lurked at her feet, also glaring at us.

"Can I help?" she asked, sounding like she'd rather not.

"Good morning," Holmes said, "my name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my associate, Doctor Watson."

The girl raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Yes?"

"I'm looking for Miss Gladys Miller."

"I told you gents not to come lookin' for her anymore," the girl snarled, and her accent was pure Dublin. "Now piss off." She slammed the door in Holmes's face.

He paused a moment, unperturbed, and knocked again.

"Piss off!" the girl shouted from just behind the door.

"Miss," Holmes called, "I am a private detective; I am investigating a murder."

There was another pause, and then the door opened again. The girl looked even more suspicious of us than she had before, but she leaned her hip against the doorframe and crossed her arms. Her breath steamed out of her in a cloud as she sighed. She said nothing, waiting.

"May we come in?" Holmes asked, spreading his hands in a gesture of good will. It was fabricated: I could tell by the stiff line of his back. He didn't want to scare the girl off, which meant that she probably had at least one piece of the information we sought.

"How do I know you're tellin' the truth?" the girl asked. "About bein' a detective and all."

"I have the blessing of Scotland Yard," Holmes said, "for as much as that's worth." From the inside of his coat, he produced a leather wallet and opened it to the gleam of a badge. The girl took it, inspected it, and handed it back.

"You can come in," she said, and left the door standing open.

Holmes glanced at me, gave an exaggerated shrug, and we followed her into the dark, narrow hallway.

"Whose badge was that," I hissed in his ear.

"Lestrade's," he said, and I could hear him stifling his amusement. "It's a year old, I'm sure he's got a new one by now."

I sighed, for his benefit, and said, "You hate being associated with the Yard."

"This young woman, whoever she may be, is uncomfortable in the presence of well-dressed gentlemen and has 'told them' to leave before. But at the word 'detective,' she wanted to trust us. So, I gave her the Yard."

"Hm," I said, and left it at that.

The hallway we passed through led us to a small kitchen at the back of the house, where we were offered two seats at a rickety wooden table. The young woman went back to the job we had interrupted, which was chopping a pile of wilted vegetables on an enormous wooden cutting board with a dull knife. The otter hopped up onto another chair by the wood stove and curled itself into a ball.

"Well," she said, when we were seated, "what's happened to Gladys, then?"

"We were hoping you could tell us," Holmes said.

"Oh, no," the girl sighed. "Is she dead?"

"Not that I know of. When was the last time you saw Miss Miller?"

"Is she in trouble?"

"I certainly hope not," Holmes said. "But, to be perfectly honest, Miss, I'm worried that she is in quite a lot of trouble."

The girl paused in her chopping to wipe her forehead with the back of her wrist. "One kind of another," she said.

Holmes pressed on. "Have you seen her recently?"

"Not this month and more," the girl said. "But we was in touch. She lived in the rear flat on the second floor with her brother." She hesitated, wiping the back of her knife-wielding hand across her forehead. "Well, for the last few months she was there alone." At Holmes's expression of interest, she said, "George passed away in the summer. Terrible shame, it was. Nice lad. Easy on the eyes, you know?" She shook her head and began chopping again. "Terrible shame."

Holmes shot me a look of exasperation, and I hid a smile behind my hand. Razia ruffled her feathers restlessly.

"But you've communicated with her recently," Holmes prompted.

"I said I did," the girl snapped. "My mum took to her: they was orphans, Gladys and George. Real close, you know? So we was happy when she got a good job that was like to keep her. Sad to see her go, like, but glad."

"What did she say in her last communique?" Holmes asked. "How did she sound?"

The girl paused again to give him a glare, but said, "All right. The family was good to her, she said, but nothing weren't the same as living here, with us, with George."

Holmes appeared to change his mind about something, and said, "You said you'd told us to leave her alone. Has she been threatened? Recently?"

The girl's lips thinned into a line, and she nodded once. "After George died two gents in top hats came 'round asking after Gladys. She was out lookin' for work, promisin' us she wouldn't get behind on the rent, so I told them to come back later. I thought she'd want to meet 'em, dressed up as fine as they were. Maybe they had a job for her. I didn't know." She put the knife down and sank into the chair by the stove, shifting the otter to her lap. "Anyways, they come back the next night when she's in, and I hear them arguin' out in the street. She tells 'em she won't have nothing to do with them, that her brother's business wasn't hers, and she doesn't owe them a thing. When she came back inside—"

The front door of the house opened and closed, and the girl sat up straight.

"My mum's home now," she said. "She might know somethin' about it."

The footsteps that followed the door closing approached were light and quick, and the woman that appeared in the kitchen doorway shortly after matched them and the girl in the kitchen perfectly. She was small and thin with the same green eyes as her daughter, though her brown hair was laced with grey. They had the same narrow face and sharp nose, and no doubt Holmes picked up a dozen other similarities in a moment's look. Her _daemon_ , however, was not a water animal but a small yellow corn snake that was coiled around her wrist.

"Gentlemen," the woman said, stopping short. "Good morning." She had the same accent, as well: Dublin native and conscious of it. She glanced at the girl. "Maeve, did you offer our guests any tea?"

The girl, Maeve, flushed and shook her head. "They're askin' about Gladys," she said.

"Ah." Maeve's mother tightened her lips and wagged her head back and forth. "She's in trouble, is she?"

"Might be," Maeve said. She set to putting on a kettle, embarrassed, and her mother turned to us.

"Colleen O'Donnell," she said. "Are you with the police?"

"My name is Mister Sherlock Holmes," Holmes said, standing up. "This is Doctor John Watson, my associate." I shook Mrs O'Donnell's hand. "We are not the official force, Madam, but we are concerned private citizens." He showed her Lestrade's badge again.

Mrs O'Donnell looked skeptical, but she motioned for us to take our seats again. "You'll excuse our hesitance," she said. "There have been other gentlemen asking after her for less savoury reasons, see."

"Your daughter mentioned that her brother had died recently. Was he in debt, perhaps?"

Mrs O'Donnell nodded and sat down by the fire in the seat her daughter had abandoned. "He was a good lad," she said, "but he would take to drinkin' and gamblin' and Gladys tried so hard to keep him in line. He would spend all their money away in a night and come back with all sorts of excuses, but she knew what he was about. She loved him dearly, though. Close as could be, those two." She sighed. "His debtors came lookin' for him after he died, and they found her. Even once he was gone, she wasn't done cleaning up after him."

"Did she pay these men?" Holmes asked.

"She tried to. She told me George had dug a terrible great hole and she couldn't begin to fill it."

Maeve took the kettle off the fire and filled a pot. The smell of the steeping tea filled the little kitchen, and Holmes inhaled appreciatively. We accepted the hot, chipped mugs and sipped as Mrs O'Donnell continued.

"I heard them arguing a few times," she went on. "They'd come by, like clockwork, and she'd tell them she was trying to make a living, paying rent, and she only had a little bit of money for them at a time. She's been living here almost five years now, her and George, and I was glad she put us first. I tried to give her a break a few times, but she insisted. They weren't worth the trouble, she said. She's a stubborn girl."

"She found work in Paddington," Holmes said, "a few months ago, isn't that so?"

Mrs O'Donnell nodded. "It's such a long way," she said. "We've tried to rent her room since then but haven't had any luck. I know Maeve misses her; thick as thieves they were.

"Mrs O'Donnell," Holmes said slowly, "would you permit us to take a look at Miss Miller's old room? Perhaps she had some records of her dealings with these men?"

"I suppose I'd better," Mrs O'Donnell said, "but I doubt it'll do any good." She pushed herself to her feet and motioned for us to follow.

We were led up two narrow flights of stairs to the second floor and shown into a tiny, spare bedroom. It had a single window that illuminated a pair of narrow beds with a single wardrobe between them, and on top of that a lamp. Across from the door was a washbasin on top of a trunk, above which hung a small mirror, barely big enough to reflect one's entire face.

Hengest squirmed past Holmes's feet and began sniffing around the trunk, while Holmes turned down the blankets of both beds. They made an impressive investigative team, working in tandem, crossing paths every once in a while and speaking in low voices if they spoke at all. Though extensive verbal communication with humans who are not the _daemon_ 's own is rare, Hengest was reticent even around Holmes. I suspected they communicated primary through gesture and look, and were more deeply connected than even Razia and I. They often seemed to think each other's thoughts. I admired that, even as it made me sad. It meant that Holmes had probably had a lonely childhood, and that his formative years in school had not been much better. Hengest had not only been his closest companion, as _daemon_ s were to us all, but perhaps his only companion.

Mrs O'Donnell looked on as Holmes and I searched the room to no avail. It had been empty for as long as Mrs O'Donnell had said, and Gladys had left nothing personal behind. There was an old newspaper, forgotten and yellowing, under one of the beds, but other than that we found nothing.

"Well, Madam," Holmes said after a few minutes, "I think that will do it. We will leave you and the young Miss O'Donnell in peace." He started down the stairs once more, Hengest dashing ahead of him. Mrs O'Donnell and I followed. "Thank you for the tea," Holmes called into the kitchen, and was off down the hallway without another word of farewell.

"Find Gladys," Mrs O'Donnell said. "She don't deserve whatever trouble she's got."

"We will do our utmost," I assured her, and hurried after my companion.

Holmes was in the street already, frowning darkly in the full morning sunlight. When I emerged with Razia on my shoulder, he looked up and his mouth twisted sardonically.

"Back to the drawing board, Watson," he said. "We shall need to repeat our search in her current lodgings and pray that she left incriminating documents behind. I will send a note to Ainsley and request a visit." He glanced up and the sky and sighed. "But until then, do you feel up for a bit of a walk? It is such a splendid day."

—

We crossed the Blackfriars bridge and walked east along the embankment. The tide was high and the boats and barges on the Thames steamed and sailed by in all their glory. At Waterloo bridge, we turned north and then west again to continue along the Strand, for the scenery. By then I was beginning to limp once more, for although the day was beautifully sunny, the cold was biting, and my leg got the better of me. We stopped in at a restaurant on the Strand for a bit of luncheon, and once we had warmed up I was ready to be going again.

By then we had received an answer to Holmes's request for an audience, in the form of one of his irregular collection of street urchins running up to us with a note, and so we stepped into a cab and drove straight for Chepstow Road. Ainsley was not there to receive us, being occupied with preparations for his young wife's funeral, but the valet let us in and led us up to the rooms on the third floor where he and the others had resided.

"Gladys was a good girl," he told us as Holmes began his methodical search. His badger _daemon_ sat at his fee, leaning against his legs. "A bit quiet, but good at her job. Mrs Ainsley never had reason to complain about her."

"I'm sure she didn't," Holmes said. Hengest was on top of the narrow bureau in the corner, his tail upraised.

"How well did you know her, personally?" I asked.

Douglas frowned. "I didn't take advantage of her, it that's what your asking," he said. "We were on good terms, but none too familiar."

"I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't mean that at all. I only meant, did you talk much? Did she tell you about her family?"

"She said her brother was sick," the valet said, his brow furrowed. He folded his hands behind his back. "She was sending him money. She hardly kept any of it for herself; never took a day off."

"Interesting," Holmes said, suddenly beside us. "More interesting yet, this wire." He held up a piece of paper in triumph. _TIME IS RUNNING OUT_ the page read. "Suitably suspicious, wouldn't you say, Watson?"

"Deeply," I agreed.

"May we keep this?" Holmes asked Douglas, who shrugged.

"I don't see why not, sir," he said. "Seeing as you're with the force."

Holmes's mouth thinned, but he said, "Yes, of course. Thank you. That will be all."

We were led back downstairs and seen out the front door once more. When it had closed behind us, Holmes pulled out the telegram again and examined it in the afternoon sunlight. He began to grin. 

"My dear boy," he said, reaching for my arm and sliding his hand into the crook of my elbow. "You'll never guess where this is postmarked from."

"Whitehall," I said.

"Damn!" he cried. "On the nose, Watson. There are some important people mixed up in this affair." And then he laughed, clear as a bell. I stared at him in surprise. Even Hengest was fairly bounding, running away from us and back again with his tail in the air, playful. Razia spread her wings in disapproval.

"Holmes," I said, "there are ordinary people mixed up in this, and they are _dying_."

"Oh, you're quite right," Holmes said, patting my arm. "Forgive me. I just haven't felt such a thrill in ages. This— this!— is a mystery worth my time. How dreadful it all is."

We returned to Baker Street, and as we hung up our coats on the pegs beside the sitting room door, Holmes said, "Watson, I shall need a few hours to think. Kindly don't make a sound."

I rolled my eyes in long-suffering acquiescence, and crept away to my bedroom for a nap. At least, that was what I intended to do. For the most part, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, speaking to Razia in a low voice about the morning's discoveries.

"Her employment at the Ainsley's and her brother's debt must be related," I said.

"I doubt that she got the job because her brother is dead," Razia replied.

"No, she's not a charity case," I agreed. "That would be too coincidental. And too random."

"But her mistress's untimely death certainly isn't."

"No." We were quiet for a while. "I hate to think it," I said finally, and trailed off.

"The debt might have become too much," Razia said, lifting herself from her perch by the window to join me on the bed with a soft thump. She brushed her wingtips against my cheek and nuzzled herself into the crook of my neck. Her body was soft and warm, her heartbeat humming under her pointed sternum. "You think she sold out Mrs Ainsley. Sold her _daemon_."

"But to what end?"

Neither of us knew the answer to that. Gladys might have cleared herself of her brother's financial woes, or she might have been become more deeply entangled in the web. One incident might turn into two, or three.

I must have slept then, for it was dark outside when I opened my eyes again. Holmes was standing at the foot of my bed, poised as if he had been about to shake me.

"Ah," he said softly, when I stirred. "Good. There's supper on the table, if you want it. I am going out."

"Alone?" I asked. I did not have all my wits about me yet.

He smiled, the expression only half illuminated by the light coming from the hall. "Yes," he said. "I'm afraid I need to go see my brother, and we both know how you two get to chatting. I won't be long." He patted my leg in farewell, and disappeared down the stairs.

He was gone well into the evening, and I dined alone, read my book a while, and contemplated the fire for some time. I was preparing to turn in when I finally heard the front door open and close, and his foot upon the stair.

"Good evening," he said quietly, when he had entered. Hengest padded over to Razia and gave her a nudge in greeting, marking her feathers with the ridge of his cheek.

"Any luck?" I asked. I felt her warmth and pleasure at Hengest's return.

"A little." Holmes took off his coat and rubbed his long hands up and down his arms briskly. "Mycroft has assured me that should I need it, the force of government will be behind me, whatever the case."

"Did you tell your brother the whole story?"

"No." He smiled a secret smile. "I insinuated that there was something unsavoury going on and he did not press for details. He is discreet, my brother, but something like this he would be unable to ignore. He would begin pulling strings and whispering into ears, and we would lose our man in an instant."

I never was certain what exactly Mycroft Holmes did for the government, and I preferred it that way. All this talk of whispers made me uneasy. "Well," I said, "that would be unfortunate."

"It certainly would. Are you going to bed?"

"Yes," I said. "Unless you need me this moment."

Holmes moved to the mantle and took up his Persian slipper.

"Holmes," I protested, "I have only just cleared the air from your last bout of brainwork."

He ignored me, lighting a cigarette. It was insolence and acquiescence in one: he would smoke and damn my eyes, but the cigarettes never accumulated like the pipe smoke did. "Good night, Watson," he said, lifting his eyebrows, and so I departed.


	3. Chapter 3

Tuesday dawned bright and cold. There was frost on my window panes, and my breath showed white in the air. It took me a few minutes to work up the courage to get out of bed, and then I hurried into my clothes and decided I didn't need to wash my face in the previous day's cold water if I could have a shave instead.

When I returned from the barber, Holmes had still not emerged. I sat down to breakfast without him, and it wasn't until nearly nine o'clock that he made an appearance.

"No post yet," he said in greeting.

"No," I agreed. "Are you expecting something?"

"Mycroft has promised to telegram in the morning." Holmes sat down across from me at the breakfast table and took the toast right off my plate. "And since Mrs Hudson has not seen fit to rouse me, I assume there is no post."

I shrugged. "Get your own," I said, as he reached for a second piece.

"Very well," Holmes said testily, uncovering the other dish on the table, the one meant for him. "Unfortunately, I cannot ensure that Mycroft will have anything useful to say, although he does have his fingers in quite a number of pies, as it were. I worry we are about to meet a dead end."

I took a piece of toast in recompense. "I see," I said. "Well, if it's any consolation, there is the paper."

Holmes accepted the paper, but he had only been looking at it for a minute or two when the post appeared in Mrs Hudson's capable hands. There was no telegram from Mycroft Holmes, but there was one from Scotland Yard. Holmes frowned at it for a moment, and then he shoved it at me. "Damn it all," he said, putting his hand over his face when I had taken the paper, "dead end or no, it's happened again."

—

We met Inspector Gregson at St. Bart's hospital, where the victim of the Separation was being sedated. He had been found in an alleyway in Covent Garden by a barmaid who'd thought he was drunk. No doubt she had turned him over with the toe of her boot, considered the state of his pockets, and then reconsidered when she realized he was without his _daemon_.

We didn't need to visit the patient to know his state. There was only one state one could be in with half a soul missing. Gregson was looking pale, and his German Shepherd _daemon_ was sitting at his feet, its teeth bared protectively.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes, Doctor," the Inspector said as we walked up. "That is, well, it is never a particularly good morning when something like this turns up."

"Quite so," Holmes said, somewhat coldly, unwrapping his muffler from around his face. "There have been a few less than good mornings recently, haven't there?"

The Inspector had the grace to look embarrassed for the Yard. "Yes," he agreed. "More than we expected."

Holmes fixed him with a level glare. "And I suppose you're looking into each and every one," he said.

"Ah," Gregson said uncomfortably.

Rolling his eyes in irritation, Holmes waved a hand. "Tell us about the victim, if it isn't too much trouble."

"George Blackwell, thirty three, is a chemist on High Holborn. His wife is with him now, but she's refused to speak to us. He was found this morning; well, you read the note. We're trying to keep it out of the papers, because of course someone's got wind of the last one and we can't let this become an epidemic."

I coughed discreetly into my fist, and Holmes glared at me too. "Of course not," he said. "Watson, go in and talk to the wife."

"Me?"

"You're the one with any bedside manner," Holmes said. "You've criticized my own approach often enough. Let's see yours at work. Find out everything you can."

I did as I was bid, and Razia moved herself from my shoulder to my forearm as we eased our way into the ward.

George Blackwell was in much the same state Mrs Ainsley had been: delirious from a psychic pain that could be alleviated by nothing but the return of his _daemon_. Mrs Blackwell was sitting at his side, his hand clamped tightly in hers. On Blackwell's chest sat his wife's _daemon_ , a squirrel curled up into a ball, its nose covered by its own tail.

"Madam," I said softly, when she looked up. Her round face was pale but her eyes were red from weeping. She had tears running down her face, but she wiped them away as I approached.

"Sir," she said, her voice wavering, "I said I didn't want to talk to the police."

"I know," I said. "My name is Doctor Watson. I am a friend of Sherlock Holmes, the detective."

She closed her eyes. "Ah," she said. "Well, then, Doctor, are you here for me or my husband?"

"I'd be happy to take a look at your husband, if you like," I said, "but really I am here for your sake."

"For Mr Holmes's sake, you mean."

"For yours," I insisted, "and for your husband's. This is a very serious matter, and we intend to stop it before any one else gets hurt."

"He already is hurt," Mrs Blackwell said thickly, touching her husband's hand to her cheek. "Can you fix that?"

"Mrs Blackwell," I said, "we cannot, but if we find the people who did this to him, we may be able to heal him." It was half a lie; I didn't know if he could be healed from a Pull or a full Separation, but I knew if she believed we could help, we would be well on our way to success.

She daubed at her eyes again and seemed to steady herself. "Very well," she said. "Ask me what you will."

I pulled a chair from beside the next bed and sat down. "What was Mr Blackwell doing last night that he was so far from home?"

Mrs Blackwell sighed. "He was not so far from home as all that," she said. "We only live on Drury Lane, Doctor Watson. He went out after supper to the pub, like he does sometimes, and I went to bed. He usually wakes me up when he gets home, making a racket. But when I woke up, there was a police officer at the door." She dissolved into a fresh wave of quiet weeping, as though her husband were already dead. I wanted to reach out and comfort her, but I sensed that my offer would be rebuffed.

"Does Mr Blackwell have any other unsavoury habits?" I asked instead. "Besides the drink, any debts he might have incurred or people who might have wished him ill?"

She shook her head, but then said, "He does play dice sometimes. Loses a bit of money, wins it back. But he's a good man. His customers love him. His income isn't what his brother's is, but we are comfortable. Our children are grown, Doctor, and have families of their own; it's been easier recently, with them out of the house and only the two of us to look after, and the business so good. He doesn't— he wouldn't—" She broke off again, her face in her hands, and what it was exactly that George Blackwell wouldn't do was lost.

I left her there and returned to Holmes. "Dice," I said. "And she says business was good recently."

"Was it," Holmes said. Hengest was sitting at his feet, his tail flicking back and forth with impatience. "So where was he meant to be last night?"

"Out drinking. She didn't seem afraid of it, or him, so I don't think he's the dangerous sort of drunk, but that could get him into just as much trouble."

Holmes sighed. "Well, death will make honest men of us all."

"Holmes," I said sharply. "The man isn't dead yet, and we don't know that he will die." Gregson had gone down the hall a ways to speak to a constable; I was glad for his distance.

"Watson, please," Holmes said, "you and I both know exactly how this will end."

"Unless we find our man."

"How long do you expect Mr Blackwell to last?" Holmes asked, stepping in close to lower his voice. "Do you think we can trust him to wait around for us? I don't have all the information I need, but believe me when I say I am doing my utmost to gather it as quickly as possible. You may say I'm cold-hearted, but I never _enjoy_ a man in pain. I am simply dispensing with the guilt of hoping that Blackwell may yet recover. One does not _recover_ from having one's heart torn out. That, at least, I do know."

I stared at him, ashamed of my unspoken accusation. His grey eyes burned with a fire of determination, and I knew in that instant that he would stop at nothing to come to the end of this matter. He would not be content to arrest one culprit and pin the blame on him; we both suspected there was a network of individuals, and Holmes would have them all.

"I'm sorry," I said softly. "I shouldn't have—"

"No," Holmes snapped, "you should not. We have a great deal to do today; are you coming?" With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away down the hall, Hengest at his heels. He passed Gregson without a word, and I was left to excuse us to the Inspector and beg his pardon. We had gathered what we could, and would be in touch, I said. Then, I hurried after Holmes with Razia soaring behind. The door to the ward was swinging shut behind me when I heard the chilling sound of Mrs Blackwell's wail: a widow, newly made.

We walked to the place Mr Blackwell had been found, the cold air nipping at our exposed skin. Holmes tucked himself deeply into his muffler while Hengest trotted along at his heels, and I silently lamented that I needed one hand for my cane while the other could be snug in my coat pocket. Razia flew along beside us, her movement keeping her warm, though I could tell she resented it.

The alleyway in question was still being guarded by a constable, but he recognized Holmes straight away.

"Inspector Gregson warned me you might be by," he said. "Thomas is the name." His _daemon_ was a variety of large wolfhound I did not recognize; it was common, I understood, for police officers to have canine _daemon_ s. Not a rule, of course, but noticeable as a pattern.

"Constable Thomas," Holmes said, shaking his hand. "Kindly describe to us the scene, as you understand it."

Thomas did. Mr Blackwell had been found half a dozen meters down the alleyway, lying on his face. When Thomas showed us the spot, Holmes crouched to get a better look and Hengest began sniffing at the ground, testing every anomaly he came across. Blackwell had been deposited there between midnight, the last time anyone they'd questioned could recall being in the alley, and six, when the barmaid had actually discovered him. 

"He was dragged," Holmes said to me, indicating a scuff in the alley grime that was sustained for four or five inches. "Go on."

The few people that the police could pin down long enough to interview were cagey and uncomfortable, disturbed by the knowledge that Blackwell was missing something crucial. They were all touching their _daemon_ s, Thomas had noticed, as he'd interviewed them.

Holmes smiled at that. "A knack for detail," he said, sounding pleased. "Excellent. Irrelevant, of course, but I appreciate the effort."

Thomas looked like he wasn't certain if that were a compliment or not. I wasn't certain either, and I'd been on the receiving end of many of the same. When he glanced my way, hoping for some kind of reassurance, I shrugged. It didn't seem to help.

Holmes listened to the rest of Thomas's explanation with half an ear, while Hengest continued to explore the alleyway, roaming back and forth, his long tail twitching. The farther Hengest moved down the alley, the more steps Holmes took backwards, keeping himself within the comfortable range of distance between the two of them, forcing Thomas to walk with him. It was clear to anyone watching that Holmes was only listening with half an ear, and when Hengest began to inspect something with deliberate interest Holmes was immediately on alert, turning abruptly away from Thomas's narrative to have a look.

"Bit impatient," Thomas grumbled under his breath.

I wasn't sure whether I would defend Holmes or condemn him if I opened my mouth, so I bit my lip.

Down the alley, Holmes was whispering to Hengest and peering through his lens at the ground once more. Finally he called, "Watson, find a cab, I'm nearly ready."

I hailed a cab, and by the time I had told him our address Holmes was at my side.

"Constable," he said, "you've been very helpful," and vanished into the interior. Thomas gave me a look that conveyed very clearly how much he believed that, and I couldn't help but grin.

Holmes said nothing on our ride back to Baker Street, but once we were behind closed doors once more he showed me the object that Hengest had found: a single ivory die. As I took it from his hand, I realized it was weighted.

"'Oh' indeed," Holmes said in response to my exclamation. "His windfall was as I expected: unreliable. Rather than a debt this time, my dear boy, we have revenge. So. George Blackwell leaves his house as was his habit, rousing no suspicion in his wife. No witnesses to the incident leaves me to believe that he did not have anyone with him, as he claimed: not a night out with the lads at all."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"If he had friends with him before the incident, they would be in attendance now, clamouring to tell us what happened," Holmes said. "He may have even been removed from the area and returned there later. You saw the place that made me say he'd been dragged?"

I nodded.

"A mistake. I do make them, sometimes. I hope you'll remind your public of that. No, it was a drag mark, but it was only the heel of one boot. Blackwell was carried into the alley and deposited."

"So someone took him away and brought him back. Where did they go?"

"That is still outside my reach," Holmes said. "The mud on his boots at the hospital was inconclusive." He rapped his knuckles on the mantle in impatience.

"What do we do next?" I asked.

"Ah ha!" Holmes had spotted the single envelope sitting on the sideboard and he snatched it up. "Brother Mycroft has finally been of use. Perhaps this will give us some idea." He opened it with a flourish bourn of dramatic practice, and I watched him read it, his sharp eyes scanning the page. Hengest paced behind him, bumping himself against Holmes's calves.

Finally I gave in. "What does he say?"

"Do you feel up for a night out, Watson?" Holmes asked. "Game or two of cards at my brother's expense?"

"You asked Mycroft if anyone in Whitehall was a member of a club particularly known for their gambling," I said, realizing the direction Holmes's investigations had taken, late as always.

He grinned at me, showing an unexpected level of pleasure at my deduction. "I did indeed. Not only that, but he's given me a list of names to go with each club. Read these for me." He handed over the page.

Most of the names on the list were familiar to me: many of them were public government officials and Members of Parliament. The clubs were equally familiar, though for more than ten years I had studiously avoided them. 

"This one," I said, pointing to a name halfway down the list. "The others have card rooms, but the Cadeuceon has a real reputation. That's where we'll find our man."

Holmes took the page back, peered at it, and then laughed aloud. "Oh, Watson! You are a absolute wonder. Did you see?" He waved the page at me. "The members of this club!"

"Tell me," I said, unwilling to snatch the paper from his hand outright.

"Here," he said, and moved close to me so that we both could read the list. His body was warm, despite the cold we had just escaped, and he smelled like his tobacco. I breathed in subtly, enjoying it. He put his hand on the small of my back as he showed me. "See? Lord Robert James Farnham."

"Who is that?"

"An elected official," Holmes said. "The Associate Minister of Energy."

—

We did not take action for several days. Holmes spent much of the time investigating Lord Robert, while I made myself familiar with the other members of the Cadeuceon and their social circles. I still had some influence within the sphere of physicians, and with a few well placed hints I was soon extended an invitation. My former colleague, a doctor by the name of Sherman, was eager to meet the famous Sherlock Holmes, and I did not object to the automatic association.

By then it was Friday evening, and Holmes was dressed in his best tails before supper, champing at the bit to be off again. His own work had proved fruitful, he claimed, though he did not elaborate. I let him keep his secrets.

Bundled up to the eyes, we braved the icy evening to walk to the club. It was nearly two miles, but the activity after so much waiting seemed to wake me up, getting my blood pumping and lifting my spirits. Certainly there was a maniac and a conspiracy haunting London, but for the moment it didn't look so bleak. We were men of action, Holmes and I, and we had caught upon a scent. This nasty business might be over before too long.

I gave my card to the butler at the Cadeuceon's door and Sherman and his beagle _daemon_ came to meet us in the inner waiting room. We had already been divested of our coats and hats by then, and Holmes shook his hand warmly and thanked him for having him along as well.

"Not at all, Mr Holmes," Sherman gushed. "My wife and I just love Watson's stories; she'll have an absolute fit when she hears I've met you."

Holmes gave Sherman the variety of smile he had given many a potential client: polite, sterile, and entirely false. "You're very kind," he said. He had other things on his mind at the moment.

Sherman led us into the lounge, where we shared a drink, and Holmes regaled us with a story from his recent travels in Europe. I listened with as sincere a smile on my face as I could manage, but about three quarters of the way into the narrative Holmes's enthusiasm faltered, and the conclusion became somewhat muddled. Sherman did not appear to care, and Holmes and I quickly agreed to a game of billiards to relieve some of the tension.

"Are you working on anything right now?" Sherman asked me a little later, as we waited for our turn. "Any big mysteries afoot?"

I shrugged, noncommittal. "This and that," I said. "Holmes will take on just about anything, big or small, so long as it presents a nice conundrum."

"What about the writing? It's been a while since the last one came out."

That was true enough. It had been over a year since "The Final Problem" was published in the _Strand_ magazine, and in all honesty I was guarding Holmes jealously. There had been a bit of a newspaper flurry upon his return, and the public certainly knew that he was alive given that our caseload had resumed almost its former strength, but I wanted the knowledge of those cases to myself. I had written things down here and there since I'd moved back to Baker Street, but had no intention of approaching my editor again for some time.

Instead of admitting all this to Sherman, I shrugged and said, "You know how publishing can be: slow as molasses."

Sherman and I won the billiards game by a narrow few shots, and then we sat down to supper with some younger medicos and their _daemon_ s in the dining room. To the untrained observer, Holmes was entirely at ease, smoking a cigarette and engaging his neighbours on both sides regarding the importance of blood spatter analysis in suspicious deaths. But I observed him as we ate, and his attention continuously wandered about the room. Hengest sat on his lap, paws folded and eyes slitted. Both of them were looking for any sign of Lord Robert.

Holmes caught my elbow after supper. "You will have to enter into a game of cards," he hissed in my ear. "That is where Farnham will be. And if it not he himself, his associates. He has a few personal friends I am suspicious about."

"Very well," I said, my stomach swooping. I was still waiting for the gambling itch to start up in my fingers, and the anticipation was making Razia ruffle her feathers nervously. We had a plan, Holmes and I, but would I be able to stick to it?

We made our way to another lounge, at which point Holmes excused himself, declaring that he had spotted an old friend from University across the room, and vanished with Hengest at his heels. Sherman took the opportunity to sit me down at a card table, and Razia settled herself on the back of my chair.

Ten hands of cribbage later, I had established myself as a perfectly horrible card partner and had done my best to make it look like bad luck. Sherman was waving away my apologies and protests, but I could tell by the tightness of his mouth and the whiteness of his fingertips how displeased he really was. Our opponents could hardly hide their good-natured smiles. I made up for it by winning a hand or two, while Razia watched for Holmes over the heads of my companions.

The focus of the case was making all the difference when it came to my penchant for throwing away money for the sake of taking risks. That, or the blank cheque and my prerogative to lose.

I saw Sherman make eye contact with someone across the room, and a few moments later a tall, robust gentleman with magnificent side whiskers emerged from behind me. Sherman excused himself and exchanged a few whispered words with the gentleman.

Then I caught sight of Holmes beyond them, watching with a kind of intensity that was almost guaranteed to give him away. I had to step in, but how?

Sherman solved it for me.

"Watson," he said, "this is Lord Robert Farnham; we went to school together," and the gentleman offered me a smile and his right hand to shake. I stood up to take it.

"Lord Robert," I said, gripping firmly. "Doctor John Watson."

"I came to ask how Albert was doing," Farnham said. "We usually play together, he and I."

"Not well," I lamented. "I am not as sharp as I used to be. Perhaps the game has changed since last I played."

We all shared a laugh over that, and Farnham clapped me on the shoulder. "Never mind, old boy," he said. "Albert can win it all back with me tomorrow." He winked at Sherman.

"Maybe I should give up the seat to you now," I said, "and save us all the trouble. And another hundred pounds."

Sherman winced and shook his head in good-natured distress, but Farnham only beamed. "Good heavens!" he said. "You're digging yourself quite a hole."

I shrugged. "I've got a big shovel," I said. "And plenty of dirt to move."

Farnham gave me another pat on the shoulder and Razia ruffled herself indiscreetly. He pretended not to notice, but his own brown and grey wolverine _daemon_ bared her teeth. I smiled at Farnham, and Sherman, and stepped away from the chair.

"Please," I said. "I insist, just one hand. I'll be back in a jiffy."

Farnham took my seat, and I made a point of asking a passing waiter which direction I should go for the necessary convenience. I headed that way, and Razia's talons gripped hard into my shoulder when she landed.

"This isn't safe," she hissed in my ear.

"I need to find Holmes," I replied. "Damn the man, where's he gone?" He had vanished in the time it took me to be introduced to Lord Robert. I was unarmed– Holmes's mention that we might encounter Farnham himself was very late, and I had seen a sign upon our entrance that declared firearms were not permitted inside. It didn't surprise me that I would not be allowed to carry a pistol into a club known for facilitating gambling. The urge to shoot opponents might be too strong to resist for some.

I did make use of the lavatory after all, pausing to splash water on my face. We had come looking for Farnham, and he had introduced himself to me. In the moment I had been calm, but now my heart was racing. I didn't know what Holmes wanted to do now that we'd found him. I wished then that I had insisted on knowing his plan of action.

I left the lavatory and headed for the billiards room, thinking perhaps Holmes could be lingering in there, watching Farnham and his associates from a distance. The hallway was poorly lit, half of its gas lamps gone out. I was frowning up at one when I heard footsteps coming from behind me.

"Watson," Sherman's voice said, and as I turned he reached up and covered my mouth and nose with a wet rag. Dismayed, I recognized the scent of chloroform and I swooned, staggering, trying to pull away. Sherman held on tight, even as Razia lifted herself from my shoulder and flapped into the air. The pressure in my lungs became unbearable and I inhaled against my own will. The hallway went dark.


	4. Chapter 4

I came around in the half-light of gas lamps, but these were not the same lamps I had last seen. My head was pounding and my stomach churned. I tried to sit up and found I was restrained at wrist and ankle. I began to struggle, and the nausea worsened. I had been stripped of my coat and hat, my jacket and waistcoat and shoes, and I couldn't feel my _daemon_. A cold rush of terror filled me, even as I began to sweat.

"Razia!" I shouted. My voice was hoarse. I had no idea what time it was. It didn't matter. Everything hurt, though I could feel no injuries on my person. "Razia!"

"Strangely enough," a familiar voice behind me said, "she slipped through our fingers. You have a strong _daemon_ , sir."

"Where is she?" I demanded, trying to turn my head and see Farnham. "You get your hands off her!"

"Oh, this is so interesting." Farnham began to move, and I heard footsteps across the wooden floor. There was the metallic grind of gears and the static sensation of a machine starting up. "Is someone touching her now?"

"I don't—" I choked, "I don't—"

"Can't you tell?" Farnham asked. He stood beside me now, looking down, his brow furrowed in concentration. The wolverine sat upon his shoulder, staring intently. "We've never had the body without the soul before."

I groaned, the nausea rising with the realization that she truly wasn't there. I felt feverish. I clenched and unclenched my hands, pulling hard against the restraints. It was no good. I had to be strong. This was where we'd been trying to get all along. Holmes would be coming. There was no way I could be abducted from the very club we had gone to investigate without his noticing something amiss. How long had I been here? How long would it take?

I felt myself breathing too hard, too fast, and struggled to stay calm. I closed my eyes again, trying to sense Razia. Normally I knew exactly where she was, her every movement like an extension of my physical self. Now all I could feel was the faint echo of her distress, her pain feeding into mine.

Then, I felt a burst of relief, and something that was like a cool salve on fevered skin. I was able to take a slower breath, and then another. She wasn't coming closer to me, but something was happening.

"Well?" Farnham pressed. His hands were folded behind his back. "Tell me what it feels like, Doctor. I'm very interested in this development. You must be in agony with your _daemon_ so far away."

 _Far away_. Razia had escaped. She had eluded them at the club— how?— and now the distance between us was enough that Farnham, a man who had torn souls asunder apparently without remorse, found it remarkable. That didn't tell me much about where I actually was.

"Get away from me," I snarled.

"Doctor," Lord Robert said, taking a step back all the same, "calm down, or this will be much worse for you than it needs to be."

"Holmes is onto you," I said.

"I was concerned that might be the case," he said. "It was fortunate that you came to the Caduceon when you did— it saved me a lot of trouble."

A chill went through me. Holmes certainly would have known what we were getting into by going there. But I had no way to know now whether he was aware of my absence. "Why don't you just kill me?"

"Kill you?" Lord Robert shook his head. "Doctor, no, that's not at all what I intend to do."

"You've done it before," I said. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my forehead was damp with sweat.

"A side effect I hope to eliminate," Lord Robert said. "I've been working on this process for years, Doctor. There is so much untapped potential in the energy of Dust. I could heat Buckingham Palace for a month on a single bond."

"How can you say that," I gasped. "The suffering you've caused."

"As I said." Lord Robert folded his hands behind his back. "It is an unfortunate side effect."

"What are you doing to do?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"Two things." He moved away again, above my head, and it hurt to try and see. I closed my eyes. Lights were flashing behind my eyelids. "First, I must impress upon Mr Holmes that the work I am doing is invaluable to the commonwealth, and that he must not stop me. Second, I have a theory about the quality of energy between an individual and his _daemon_. You, sir, as a veteran and a man of great integrity, have the most amazing bond with yours. What is she? A hawk?"

"Damn you," I said.

"Well." Lord Robert sniffed, indignant. The whine of the machine grew louder, higher pitched, and I strained once more futilely against my bonds. "You have experienced things that many people have not. I have theorized that this gives you and your _daemon_ a more resilient connection which can be tested without being broken. I would like very much for you to be my first success, Doctor."

I almost vomited. I turned my head, afraid I would drown myself, but managed to keep the contents of my stomach where they belonged. Somewhere far away, I felt Razia stiffen, and then that calming sensation once more. Something about it was familiar. I took a slow breath.

"Ah," Lord Robert said, "there it is. Look at that, Doctor. Open your eyes and look."

Against my better judgement, I obeyed him. The room had darkened, but as I lifted my head I realized it was because I had become luminous. I was surrounded by a sparkling cloud of fine gold particles, and when I craned my head to look, so too was Lord Robert and his wolverine. It was Dust. 

"Isn't it beautiful?" Lord Robert sighed. The wolverine made some noise of agreement. "Magnificent. Your bond is so strong, I can see it in the air. You are a perfect specimen, Doctor Watson."

I whispered, "Damn you," again, stunned and unsteady. I could see what he was talking about. The Dust that surrounded me trailed off by my feet, thinning out into a narrow golden beam that stretched across the room and vanished into the wall. It was like watching a sunbeam, the way the Dust floated and danced. If I focused my attention on it, I could feel Razia more strongly: her concern, her discomfort, and that strange, familiar sensation underneath it.

Lord Robert came around to stand beside me again, gazing down at me with undisguised satisfaction in his eyes. He wasn't seeing _me_ , he was seeing the success of his experiments, close enough to touch.

"It's amazing," he said, reaching out to pass his hands through the halo of Dust, an inch from my shirt front. "I would never have known without the help..." He stopped himself, smiling. "But I know now. I will make England the most powerful empire in the world, Doctor Watson."

"I thought it already was," I said. "The Queen—"

"Her Royal Majesty does not build the empire herself," Lord Robert scolded. "No, she has executors. Just as her generals conduct business in Africa and Asia, so do I lead improvements here. I will free England of her dependence on coal. We use it up too quickly. Soon we will not have enough left in the ground, and we will turn to other countries to supply it. We may attempt to obtain new, coal rich land, but my solution is much more plentiful. The energy from our own selves!" He clapped his hands together in the joy of his madness. "It will usher in a new era. I will certainly be knighted for this."

I tried my restraints again. His eyes were bright with determination, and my stomach was like ice. Through the ache in my head and the gold haze that blinded me somewhat, I began to look around the room. If Holmes did find me, I needed to be prepared. I needed to know what dangers surrounded me.

The room was large, with a high ceiling and a huge, dusty chandelier that lurked in the shadows above my head. There were two doorways that I could see: one to my left, and one by my feet. I couldn't see behind me. The machine I had heard was still whirring away, its static emission tingling at the edges of my hearing. It was more of a sensation than a sound: an awareness. It made me shiver. 

I was lying on a facsimile of a sanatorium bed, built for Bedlam. Normally it would have protected a patient from himself, but now it offered me no protection at all. The other furniture in the room had been pushed aside to accommodate it and the machine, and I could see the silhouettes beyond the glow of Dust, forgotten. I was trapped, alone and unheard, with a madman. I had to use another approach.

"How does it work?" I asked, commending myself on the steadiness of my voice. Deep inside my chest, I felt like something was being pulled apart.

Lord Robert schooled his expression into one of detached interest, one I had seen on the faces of my professors while I was studying medicine. He was going to begin to lecture, which was decidedly in my favour. The longer he explained, the longer Holmes had to figure out where I'd gone.

"It should be very simple," Lord Robert began. "The bond between the souls components is made up of what mystics and scholars call Dust. Those who have studied it extensively noticed that it gathered more abundantly around adults than around children, and presumed that it was because of the settling of the bond. Once the _daemon_ is set in its state, the true connection is formed. The _daemon_ is a manifestation—"

I tried to look like I was listening to his explanation, but in truth I turned my attention inwards again, feeling for the cord-like connection I felt to Razia. The sensation resided behind my breastbone, between my lungs, and as I reached for her I felt her react. She had noticed me! She felt me. We were not lost. Even with Farnham's proof visible as a thread drawing away from my feet, to feel the truth of our connection sent a wave of relief through me. I could not let it show on my face.

"To make use of the Dust," Lord Robert was saying, beginning to pace up and down the length of the bed, "it must be extracted from the bond while the bond is under stress."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Because that is when it is as its most concentrated. It has the power to self-repair, Doctor, and so when it is agitated it begins to produce even more energy. This is what I am trying to harness. And I am so close!"

Another shudder of dread took me, and I stiffened everywhere, trying to suppress it. I was going to be operated upon. I was going to be awake, and aware, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was going to be mutilated beyond recognition, torn asunder like smoke. I was shaking again, unable to stop.

Lord Robert noticed. "Don't be afraid, Doctor," he said in what would have been a calming tone in any other situation. "You must understand how much this means to me. We have been working so long and so hard, and a success now would mean a great increase in funding, in recognition. Our efforts will be celebrated, and you will be lifted above all others as a model of the perfect citizen. Your sacrifice will be remembered."

"No," I said, turning my head away, "no."

"Yes." Lord Robert took hold of my chin and forced me to look at him again. "You are a hero, Doctor Watson, and you deserve to be recognized."

"Oh, God," I whispered.

Razia, far away on her end, was trembling too. There it was again! That feeling. I ignored my terror for a moment and focused on it, closing my eyes. The sensation moved from one place to another: a caress. I imagined a smell, familiar and unnamed, though in reality I could smell nothing but the dust of the old room and the electricity in the air generated by the machine behind me. I emptied my head and let out a breath, and I could feel the soft scratch of wool against my cheek.

Holmes. Dear God. He was holding Razia in his lap, his strong, fine hands clasped around her breast and wings. She had her head buried in the folds of his coat, and beside her Hengest was purring to comfort her. I could hear it in my ear, a vibration behind my eardrum, inside my mind. Holmes was _touching my daemon_ , and it felt nothing but right. It felt like home. He was coming for me.

I grew bold once more. Clenching my fists and yanking hard (getting nowhere), I asked, "Why hasn't it worked before?"

Lord Robert looked at me steadily for a while, and then said, "There was a calculation error. Variables we could not predict."

"So their deaths were accidental?" Razia was coming closer. I felt her presence increasing. She was guiding Holmes to me. I wondered if he had called in the cavalry his brother had promised, or if he was being an idiot and coming alone. "But you knew there was a risk, that was why you picked who you did."

He shrugged, almost apologetic. "It was not a process anyone would volunteer for," he admitted. "I had leverage, and so I used it."

"What happened to Gladys Miller?"

Farnham shook his head. "She acted rashly," he said. "I thought it was only fair to give her an opportunity: her brother's debt was not truly her own, so I thought she did not need to pay for it with her own _daemon_."

"So you accepted the _daemon_ of an innocent woman?" I asked.

"Miss Miller brought me just the _daemon_ , not the woman, and there was nothing I could do. But the debt still had to be paid, and Miss Miller was as willing a subject as any."

I felt sick. I closed my eyes. The poor girl had only been trying to stay out of trouble, but her burden had been more dangerous than most. I reminded myself that all the lives ruined by Farnham's experiments were innocent ones, but Gladys stuck in my mind. I had never even seen her face, and here I was, mourning the tragedy of her misfortune.

Farnham clapped his hands together. "Enough talk!" he said. "I am glad you have taken an interest in the proceedings, Doctor Watson. I will try to keep you appraised of the process as we go. I think you will find it very enlightening."

He strode across the room to the far door, opened it, and said, "You will be amazed when you see it."

Sherman came in, pushing a metal hospital cart.

"The devil take you, Sherman!" I shouted.

"I'm sorry, Watson," he said, stopping beside me. He was surrounded by a cloud of Dust, just as I was, that shimmered and changed shape as his _daemon_ trotted around his feet. "But Lord Robert's plans will change the world. You'll see."

"You're a man of medicine," I said, yanking again on my restraints. "How can you hurt people like this?"

"It's my job to keep people from getting hurt," Sherman said seriously.

There were tears in my eyes. I refused to be parted from my soul. _Tell him to hurry_ , I thought at Razia, raging and terrified. _You can feel me, you know where I am; tell him to hurry!_

Razia was attempting to comfort me, but she couldn't see what was happening beside me. Lord Robert had returned, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and was muttering over the contents of the metal cart. He picked up a few of the instruments— could it have been calculated to terrify me? It certainly worked— and inspected them, and then turned back to me.

"Now, Doctor," he said. "Since you are doing remarkably well, considering your state, we will proceed apace. Your _daemon_ fortunately does not need to be present for us to test the strength of your bond. In fact, I am heartened by this unexpected development, for now I can truly see how extraordinary the bond is."

The instrument he was holding was a large gauge hypodermic needle.

"This I will use to collect the Dust and test its purity," he said. "Dust accumulating around a body can become contaminated by various things— their companions, their experiences, the density of the London fog—" and he chuckled at his own joke, "but the purer the Dust, the more energy it produces. Yours is of a very fine appearance; I only hope the quality is as ideal as it looks."

So the needle was not going inside me. Nor was Farnham going to sever anything, metaphysical or otherwise. Thank God. That in itself was almost a relief.

Sherman moved around the bed to my feet, where the golden cloud stretched into a thin band, away across the room and into the ether. He took the needle from Farnham across my chest. Farnham said, for my benefit, "The key is to siphon off the Dust without damaging the bond. Remember Albert, it is under considerable strain, and the slightest nick can ruin the experiment."

I might have fainted at that. I maintain that I have only truly fainted upon the occasion of Holmes's return, so perhaps we shall say that I lost focus for a few minutes. I thought about everything Razia and I had seen together. When I was a boy, I had always suspected she would take the form of a bird. She preferred to fly, to be above everyone else, to see ahead. In India and Afghanistan, she had been useful as a scout. When I'd first returned to London, she had pined for the open air of the desert. She said she couldn't see the sky in the city. It wasn't until I'd met Holmes that I remembered how to even look for it.

The pain blossomed behind my breastbone, and I was fully conscious again in an instant. I felt myself begin to struggle, even though I knew I was better off staying still. It was as if my body was no longer my own. Agony was growing in my chest like a cancer, crushing my lungs, pressing on my heart. My hands clenched and my toes curled, and I arched off the gurney, trying fruitlessly to get free. I heard myself, as if from a distance, crying out.

Lord Robert said, "Careful now," and I felt the energy begin to trickle out of me like blood from a wound. There was nothing I could do to staunch the flow, and soon the trickle would become a flood. I prayed for death, because I knew the alternative was worse.

 _Holmes,_ I thought, _I'm so sorry._

"It's moving," I heard Sherman say, and felt, somewhere deep beneath the pain and fear of Separation, a sense of triumph that was not my own.

There was a tremendous bang, followed by another that nearly deafened me. There was a great commotion, thumping and shouting, and Lord Robert cried, "No! It's not finished! My work will be lost!"

Razia was there suddenly, her talons digging deeply into my chest, a welcome pain. I was sobbing, I realized, tears running from the corners of my eyes, and she pressed herself as close to me as she could get, burrowing with her sharp beak, calling my name.

Someone else was saying my name too, a voice I didn't recognize. It was soft in my ear, almost a purr, and Hengest was nudging against my head, licking my face, curling his soft, grey body protectively around my head. "John," he was saying, his voice so foreign and so familiar all at once. He sounded like Holmes did when he used my given name: uncertain and hopeful. "John. We're sorry we're late."

"Damn you," I gasped, laughing and weeping.

Then Holmes's own hands were on mine, unbuckling the restraints around my wrists and pulling me to a seated position. I lolled, sapped of my strength, and he caught me in his arms, pressing me against his chest, trapping Razia between us. Hengest butted up against my back, and the four of us embraced. It should have felt strange and wrong, but I was overwhelmed with relief and gratitude, and thought nothing of it.

"Watson, I'm so sorry," he said in my ear. "I'm so sorry."

"Holmes," I replied, and couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Are you all right? Tell me you're all right."

"I've been better," I said, aiming for levity, and knew from his expression as he pulled back that I had missed by a mile. He searched my face intently, his brow furrowed, and then clutched me to him again. 

"We came as fast— as fast as ever we could. She could feel you, she knew you were here. How on earth did you do that?"

"Bad luck," I said.

"No," he said, "never mind. We'll speak of it later. Don't move."

He let me go, and I slumped nearly boneless back to the bed. My ankles were still shackled, and I hadn't the energy to move. Hengest scampered out from under me in time, but then he crawled onto my chest beside Razia and began licking her head, his tremendous purr vibrating through us. I reached up without thinking and began to stroke him from head to tail. His fur was so soft under my fingers, and his purring only increased.

I remember being moved from the gurney to a stretcher, and then being deposited inside an ambulance. Holmes refused to leave my side, and the gents in the ambulance made no mention of the two _daemons_ on my chest. As we left that horrible place I began to regain my senses, but Holmes shushed me when I began to ask him what had happened on his end.

"Later," he said sharply. "I will tell you, but let them look you over."

"I do happen to be a doctor," I reminded him, already feeling more myself. With Razia restored to me, the pain had almost entirely gone away. There were still some rough edges in there somewhere, though, and I would have preferred to be going back to Baker Street rather than to hospital.

"I didn't know what state I'd find you in," Holmes said, lowering his voice. He was holding my hand, and I wondered if he knew it. "I had them come with us, just in case. We might as well use the service we've paid for."

"Us?"

Holmes shrugged. "Mycroft is taking care of the details. The last thing I want is my name included in these proceedings."

"Oh," I said, and for a while that was that.

At the hospital, I put on my bravest face and convinced everyone who looked me over that I was fine. Holmes was the only one left uncertain, but even he I wore down eventually, insisting that they wouldn't know a damn thing more than anyone else about the effects of what I'd gone through, and that I wanted to figure it all out at home.


	5. Chapter 5

Dawn was breaking when we finally got in, and Mrs Hudson and Jeremy, her bulldog _daemon_ , were waiting for us. Together she and Holmes helped me up the stairs, with Razia in my arms and Hengest and Jeremy following behind. Once Razia and I were settled in my armchair by the blazing fire, she declared she'd kept a pot of tea warm and would be back in a moment.

Left alone, Holmes and I stared at one another. He stopped himself wringing his hands by hurriedly taking off his coat and hat and beginning to straighten up across the room.

"Holmes," I said finally, knowing it was best to get straight to the point. "Tell me what happened."

"I should have told you," he said, looking forlorn. He hovered for a moment longer, and then sat down on the settee. Hengest hopped up beside him and began to groom himself ferociously, as if he'd forgotten to do it for days. Holmes patted him absently, interrupting him, and then leaned back and folded his hands. "I knew Farnham would be there— men do have their habits— but I thought it wouldn't matter. I didn't expect Sherman to be— part of the plot, as it were, and I had no idea we'd been set up. I went to send a wire to Mycroft, I thought it would only take a moment–"

"Where is Farnham now?" I interrupted.

"In custody," Holmes said. "The Yard was admirably quick to come when I called for them. I suspect it had something to do with you, actually, and not my brother. You know how they admire you down there."

I wrinkled my nose. I was a biographer and a follower-along, not an investigator of any merit. But I did always get on the with the lads at the Yard.

"At any rate," Holmes went on, "they cleaned up the whole mess quite nicely. Farnham and Sherman were arrested, despite the scandal it will invariable cause, and Mycroft assured me that Farnham's other known associates will shortly be in cuffs or out of government, which ever is more appropriate."

"Where were we?"

"Chiswick. I was lucky."

"Didn't you say you knew Farnham had other properties to his name, somewhere unsavoury? Was that it?"

"Yes," Holmes said, "but I mean— I was lucky we were together last night. If you had gone out alone, it might have been hours before I knew you were gone. Instead it was a matter of minutes. Razia came to me at once."

We both turned to look at my _daemon_ , having just remembered how unusual the situation really had been.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Holmes asked softly. "I could smell the chloroform on you when we arrived. That is, Hengest could."

"Sherman—" damn the man, I thought, and damn me for a gullible fool— "had a rag soaked in it. He caught me in a hallway alone. I felt Razia leave my shoulder as— but when I woke she was gone, and I don't know how..." I trailed off, uncertain.

"Afghanistan," Razia said, loud enough that Holmes could hear her. "I did it once in Afghanistan."

I stared at her. "What? When?"

"When you were shot, you daft man," she replied, looking up into my eyes. Even though she had the form of a bird, her eyes were human in their intelligence. Somehow, it was like looking into a mirror. "You were lying in the sand, and I could have clung to you and died by your side, but I knew I'd be damned if we were going to die in the middle of nowhere. I flew nearly a mile to bring you help."

I couldn't speak. I had hazy memories of my wounds— a lot of pain, disproportionate to the actual injuries— and I realized that must have been it. She had left me behind to save our lives.

"Yes," she said. "It hurt terribly. Like I hurt tonight. And I knew you were dying. I was dying myself. But Murray's _daemon_ Shayla recognized me when I came, and she carried me back to you."

"My dear Watson," Holmes said, his eyes alight, "why, you are practically a witch."

"I certainly am not," I protested, shocked by the idea.

Mrs Hudson returned then, bearing a tray, and Holmes kissed her hand in thanks. She shook her head at him, patted my shoulder, and said, "We're just glad you're all right, Doctor." My eyes filled abruptly with tears, and I had to stare long and hard at my lap to keep myself in check.

"Since then," Razia said, resuming her narrative, "we've been a bit stretchy. I never wanted to try it again, though, so I never did."

"And I never knew." But that was untrue. Somewhere inside me, I had known. Distance between us, even more than the usual few feet most people could stand, hadn't bothered me when I returned to London. She could sit high in a tree at the park and I could sit below and read. She was our scout from above sometimes, and I'd hardly noticed. I'd assumed it was a common trait for bird _daemon_ s, but it had been us. She had done that to us. For us.

Hengest finished his thorough tongue bath and settled, purring, against Holmes's side. His eyes were slits, gazing at me across the room.

"She came to me at once," Holmes said, looking at her fondly. "But once she reached me she went limp. You must have been unconscious by then."

I hugged her close to my chest. How close we had come to utter disaster.

"Dear God, Watson, I could hardly think," Holmes said. His voice was very low. "I knew something had gone wrong, that much was obvious, and so we left at once. On our way to the Yard we tried everything to rouse her. And then, all at once, she was simply awake." He smiled tightly. "She said you'd be proud of us for going to the Yard rather than coming straight there alone, but at the time I wasn't certain."

I touched Razia's feathered head. "She was right."

"Yes, well." Holmes cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, old boy, for what happened. I should not have put you in danger like that."

"It was I who put myself in danger," I said.

"I didn't think," Holmes protested. "I was too caught up in the details, I didn't think of the larger picture. Anyone who has read a newspaper in the last week would know we were engaged on the case and it is no great leap to imagine Farnham reads the paper. Watson, I am sorry, and I beg your forgiveness."

"Well, you have it," I said, "though you do not need it."

"Thank you, my friend."

Hengest rose then, stretched, and jumped delicately down from the settee. He stalked across the carpet to me, sniffed carefully at my trouser, and then rubbed himself deliberately against my leg. I saw Holmes start, his eyes going wide, and he lifted his hand in an aborted attempt to stop what was happening.

"Holmes," I said, unable to help myself, "why do you have a male _daemon_?" It was a deeply inappropriate question to ask, and we both knew it. But Hengest was twining around my ankles, bumping against me like a plain cat would, and the spark of pleasure it sent up my spine was just as inappropriate.

Holmes sighed deeply and put a hand over his face. "I'm sure you know what people say," he said. "Why it happens."

"I've heard... rumours," I said hesitantly.

"They're not all true," Holmes said. "Well, that is, they're not all accurate, but in my case, at least, there is something to be said for rumours." He looked embarrassed, a flush rising in his cheeks. Hengest had retreated, returning to Holmes's side. I missed his warmth.

Razia lifted herself my arms and fluttered across the room. I had felt Holmes's hands on her when he cradled her to his chest, and she and I both wanted to feel them again. She was bolder than I now, disregarding long-ingrained custom to satisfy an itch. Holmes reached out, hesitated, and then touched his fingertips to her fine, delicate head.

I felt it like a caress on my own body. Holmes's fingers stroked down her spine and mine, and as she spread her wings I relaxed, welcoming the sensation. It was the echo of a feeling, intensely intimate and deeply moving. It was not the first time he had touched her, but it was the first time I could enjoy it. She lowered her head, insisting that he continue.

"So it's true for you, then?" I asked.

"Yes," he said simply.

"It's not a direct correlation," I said. "Not everyone who has a _daemon_ of the same sex is..."

"Eccentric," Holmes supplied, which made me smile.

"And," I went on, "not everyone who is, as you say, eccentric, has a _daemon_ of the same sex."

"Watson, I don't like riddles."

"You do, too," I said. "And it's not a riddle."

"Will you come here, or must I come to you?"

"You must," I said, opening my palm to him. He rose, and Razia turned her attention to Hengest, who began to groom her in turn. Holmes took my hand and sank to his knees beside my chair. I turned my head, weary from the night, but unable to back away from this thing now obvious between us.

"I've always been strange," Holmes said softly. His grey eyes were stormy and the blush was more obvious now that he was close to me.

"I've always been drawn to strange things," I replied. "You said it yourself once, I share your love of all that is bizarre."

He smiled, and so I kissed him. His mouth opened under mine, welcoming me, and I gave in to the urge to touch him, cupping his face in my free hand. Our fingers were still entwined, and Holmes gripped mine more firmly as we kissed, exploring this unexpected new territory. He tasted of too much tobacco and not enough sleep. His jaw was rough beneath my palm, the skin of his cheek warm and smooth. I rubbed my thumb across his cheekbones and devoured him, encouraged by the ragged sound of his breathing and his hand clutching at mine.

I pulled away for a moment, and over Holmes's shoulder I saw that Hengest and Razia were wrapped in a playful struggle, nipping at one another and wrestling. Razia had bitten Hengest above the shoulder and he had her pinned between his paws, and I felt nothing but pleasure from them both.

"Lie with me tonight," I murmured, looking deep into Holmes's eyes.

"I would have killed him," he replied, "if you'd been hurt."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that a no?" I felt as though I was walking on thin ice, but his snort reassured me.

"I only want you to know for certain what you're getting yourself into," he said. "I would have killed him."

"I would have thanked you," I said, entirely serious. I had seen it in his face in that terrible room. I knew.

"It's no longer night," Holmes said.

"Have me," I said, gripping the back of his neck. "I am yours, Holmes; look." I nodded over his shoulder, and he looked. "They know too much and share too little. Isn't that how they always are?"

He bit his lower lip thoughtfully, brows furrowing, and then he said, "Yes, it rather is."

"We would be fools not to emulate them."

Holmes smirked, and eased himself out of my grasp to rise. He pulled me to my feet and kissed me once more, softly, on the mouth, before he led me wordlessly to his bedroom. Hengest and Razia followed, she perched on his narrow back. They lay together on the rug as we lay down in Holmes's narrow bed, and caressed each other affectionately as we undressed.

I was exhausted by my ordeal, but I needed this more than I needed to sleep. My body surged with pleasure at Holmes's touch, and his stifled gasps and soft moans suggested he felt much the same. There was nothing inventive about our coupling— indeed, we hardly ceased exchanging kisses and attended to the demanding physical element with our hands— but I knew it was not going to be limited to one frantic exchange. Afterwards, as I was falling asleep with Razia against my chest and Holmes and Hengest against my back, he stroked my arm almost absently, as though I had spent every night since we'd met in his bed. He pressed kisses to my neck and whispered things I could not hear, and I suspected I had drawn out the sentimental side of Sherlock Holmes.

—

"I've written a note to Mr Ainsley," Holmes said, the next afternoon. "I doubt our conclusions will be entirely satisfactory, but I hope at least I've given him closure. His wife's murderer is under lock and key, and London is safer for it."

"Have you spoken to Gregson?" I asked. I was once more at my desk with Razia on the windowsill beside me, but now Holmes stood behind me, gazing out the window, one hand resting on my shoulder. Hengest sat on top of my papers, smugly unconcerned with the inconvenience, his paws folded under himself.

Holmes made a noise of assent. "There was a wire this morning. Farnham is causing a fuss, naturally, but I believe Mycroft has him firmly by the throat. Metaphorically, of course. They are looking into his work with the Dust, trying to determine if it has any merit at all, but everyone is in agreement that it was a deeply inappropriate way to go about the whole thing. He is being charged with the willful murder of a dozen people, with your man Sherman as an accessory."

I frowned, thinking of Gladys Miller, Mrs Ainsley, and the Irregulars Holmes had not seen fit to mention in his habit of keeping everything important to him under lock and key. Murder was not strong enough a descriptor, I thought. I glanced up at Holmes and he met my eyes. His hand moved from my shoulder to the back of my neck almost cautiously, and I leaned into the pressure. Hengest began to purr. Despite his calm outward demeanour, I could tell Holmes was still feeling guilty about the night before last. I reached up and put two fingers into the left pocket of his waistcoat, which made him fight a smile.

"Really, Watson," he chided, without much heat.

"Why did you never mention your research into Dust?" I asked. It had nagged at me since he first mentioned it, and now I felt I had experience to back up my interest in the subject.

Holmes shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I– well, it was an interest of mine when I was at University, but of course that sort of research is discouraged. I found chemical analysis and the science of deduction to be a much more rewarding pursuit." He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. "There was a scholar in Yakutsk."

"Siberia?"

He nodded. "Three years ago now."

I was unable to keep all expression from my face, but I wanted my answers more than I wanted to be shielded from the reminder of his absence. "And this scholar knew about Dust?"

"More than I'd ever imagined," Holmes agreed. "He showed me things I never knew possible, and though some of his theories regarding the origin and purpose of Dust were lacking in substance, I knew I could continue his research on my own when I– when I returned to London." He smiled tightly. "I met a panserbjørn, Watson. He was magnificent, more intelligent than many humans I know–" he softened the comparison with a quick caress to the back of my neck– "and the work he could do with a hammer and anvil...." Holmes trailed off, remembering, and I watched the quick and subtle play of emotions pass over his face. Nostalgia, perhaps, followed by remorse and then resignation.

"At any rate," he went on, clearing his throat, "I'm sure you can imagine why I did not bring it up."

"Yes," I said. "But I hope, despite everything that has happened, you won't hesitate to continue your work. I'd hate to think you stopped because of me. For whatever reason."

Holmes grinned briefly, and then stifled the smile into something more decorous. "Thank you," he said. "I'm a bit put off the whole thing at the moment, but I'm sure I'll be back at it soon enough. There is so much to be learned, so much we do not know. It is no small wonder the Magisterium discourages investigation: it is a volitile science."

I sighed, resigned. "Consider my blessing granted," I said, "but please do your best not to blow the windows off the front of the flat. Glass can be so expensive."

"It would create quite a draft," Holmes agreed. He bent to press a lingering kiss to my forehead, and we both went still, savouring the freedom and familiarity. Then he pulled away. "And I would hate to slow your convalescence by making you chilly."

"I am not convalescing," I protested. "We are fine. Aren't we?"

Razia bobbed her head. "We are."

"Well," Holmes said, and Hengest stood up and curved his back in a luxuriant stretch. "In that case, I will leave you alone for I'm sure you're itching to write a thing or two down." Holmes patted me once on the shoulder and stepped away. Hengest jumped off my desk, skewing the papers under his paws. They both crossed to the fireplace, where Hengest sat on the rug and began to groom himself and Holmes dug into the Persian Slipper. When he had lit his pipe and thrown himself supine on the settee, I looked out the window at the icicles forming along the eaves of the house across the street.

We had come full circle, I thought. The world beyond London, turned on unaffected, but within our flat at Baker Street, all of the lines had been redrawn. I figured it was about time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Then staid the fervid wheels, and in his hand_  
>  _He took the golden compasses, prepared_  
>  _In God's eternal store, to circumscribe_  
>  _This universe, and all created things:_  
>  _One foot he centered, and the other turned_  
>  _Round through the vast profundity obscure_  
>  — _Paradise Lost_ , John Milton  
> Book 7, lines 224–229

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "The Vast Profundity Obscure"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666034) by [Makoyi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makoyi/pseuds/Makoyi)




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